Sunset and Evening Star
by medcat
Summary: A different take on "Heart of the Matter." Retirement AU. Warning: character death. As usual, nothing graphic.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This was written as a result of discussion of our collab (Wirral Bagpuss' and mine) "Heart of the Matter" with KylaRyan. Much as I tried to shoo off this evil plotbunny, it demanded to be written. The first part is almost unchanged from "Heart of the Matter", but the second part is entirely new.

* * *

**1903**

**November 2nd, 9 a.m.**

**Holmes**

I was wearily stoking the fire in the sitting room. Somewhat to my surprise, I found I was still tired from the frantic chase through the back alleys of London last night. Our quarry had been Fossett, a brutal murderer responsible for the deaths of two men, one a retired lawyer, the other a policeman.

Having built up the fire, I sat back in my chair and sighed. Watson had been with me last night and he had struggled to keep up the pace. Both of us were not getting any younger, I dismally reflected, and these chases were taking their toll. Indeed, Watson must have been exhausted by last evening's events as he has not come downstairs yet, contrary to his habits. I decided to let him sleep for a little while longer. Just then, Mrs. Hudson walked into the sitting room with the breakfast tray and the morning papers, and I applied myself to both.

**Watson**

It was with great difficulty that I awakened that morning. My limbs seemed weighed down with lead and I found I was unusually short of breath, as well as plagued by a vague discomfort in the substernal region. Ruefully thinking that I was certainly not getting any younger, I arose, determined to shake off this strange malaise the best that I could. I stumbled towards my bedroom mirror and, rather to my dismay, saw a pale reflection of my usual self there. _No more running around the back alleys of London for me in the next few days,_ I thought wearily. And as if to emphasise that point, I felt a twinge of pain in my wounded leg. "Physician, heal thyself," I thought glumly. I pulled on my dressing gown and headed downstairs, hoping that a cup (or two) of coffee and some breakfast would set me to rights.

Holmes briefly glanced up from his intent perusal of the morning _Times_' agony column as I shuffled into our sitting room. His brows drew together in puzzlement.

"Good morning, Watson. Surely you cannot be hung over from the one brandy you had last night after we arrived home…or have you hidden a bottle of liquor under your bed and have been nipping at it on the sly?" his tone was gently teasing and his eyes twinkled.

I couldn't muster the strength to respond to his good-natured obligatory teasing and settled for slumping into my chair instead. I could not suppress a groan as I did so, and Holmes was immediately scrutinizing me with what I could only describe as concern.

"Seriously, Watson, are you quite all right?"

"I—I don't know…" I faltered, trailing off as the vague substernal discomfort suddenly flared into pain severe enough to make me gasp. I pressed my palm to the centre of my chest in a vain attempt to obtain some relief, and as I did, I felt myself break out in a cold sweat. Noting with a strange detachment that the room suddenly looked hazy, I desperately looked in Holmes's direction and saw a blurry image of him leaping out of his chair. I idly wondered what could possibly alarm him so, and then I knew no more.

******


	2. Chapter 2

**Holmes**

I was just quick enough to prevent Watson's head from striking the floor. Easing him down gently, I fell to my knees beside his still form. I tore Watson's collar open and shook his shoulder, calling his name. There was no response. As I frantically searched for a pulse, I felt my own heart skip a beat. There was a faint beating in his wrist…growing fainter even as I laid my fingers on it…but he was not breathing. I desperately tried to take charge of the panic that shook my entire frame; this was no time for hysterics. _What was it that Watson had told me to do when someone stopped breathing? Ah yes…artificial respiration…and heart not beating efficiently either…what was that newfangled method Watson was discussing and demonstrating the other day with such unbridled enthusiasm?... That was it, chest compressions…_

Breathing first…I raised and lowered his arms as the air hissed in and out of his lungs. Then Iplaced my interlocked hands on Watson's sternum and pressed down firmly. Press…release…again…now…raise and lower his arms as the air hissed in and out…again…press…release…the world narrowed to Watson's face in front of me, deathly pale and slack in unconsciousness. I was working frantically, my mind racing all the while. I have always fancied myself an atheist, but much to my surprise (and somewhat to my dismay), I found myself praying to whatever Higher Power would listen. "If it is a life you want, take mine--surely his is of more use here...you are omnipotent, after all, if what they say is true...or if you'd rather take years off my life and add to his, take as many as You will..." My voice trembled as I spoke my thoughts out loud, not caring if anyone overheard.

I have always prided myself on being rational, but I found that at this moment, I was not rational at all…and I was far from being mortified by the fact; quite on the contrary, I didn't care a whit…as long as Watson would be all right. My mind was still racing...is that how it felt to be helpless? I never thought about it before. Dear Heaven, how do doctors live with that feeling? How does Watson?

Several interminable minutes have passed as I continued my efforts...and there was still no response from Watson. Releasing his still form, I rushed to the door of the sitting room and bellowed for Mrs. Hudson to call a doctor. I heard the door slam shut behind her as I ran back to Watson's side. I resumed my efforts...the minutes ticked by, inexorably...I felt myself growing lightheaded from the continuous exertion...and there was still no response whatsoever from Watson. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder and, looking up, beheld the earnest face of Dr. Anstruther—so preoccupied was I that I did not even realize he had entered the room.

"Allow me, Mr. Holmes," he knelt and thoroughly examined Watson. It took him less than a minute while I was still kneeling next to them, biting my lower lip nervously. Anstruther's eyes...when he raised them to mine, I knew before he even said a word...he was always honest, just as Watson was, and could not hide his feelings...

"You are certain?" I whispered, feeling that if I spoke any louder, either my voice would break or I myself would shatter.

"Yes," he breathed. "Unfortunately, yes, I am, Mr. Holmes. I am so very sorry."

I bit my lip harder until I tasted blood. "Thank you, Doctor," I mechanically spoke the lines courtesy demanded of me.

"Don't mention it," he responded, just as mechanically, and I noted absently that his own voice was a trifle unsteady. We both rose to our feet and stared at each other, somewhat at a loss. Suddenly, my vision dimmed and I felt myself sway; Anstruther's hands were immediately under my elbow, guiding me to a chair. As soon as I sat down, he pressed down on my shoulders, bending my head towards my knees and instructing me to breathe slowly and deeply. I obeyed, feeling the mist clear from my vision in a few moments.

Anstruther released my shoulders and moved towards the sideboard, picking up the brandy decanter and pouring a measure into the glass. "Forgive me for taking the liberty, Mr. Holmes, but I think you could use a drink," said he, handing the glass to me. I waved off his apologies, swallowing the liquor in one gulp. "Thank you, Doctor," I forced past the lump that still felt lodged in my throat (confound it), "I shan't keep you from your other patients any longer." Anstruther sighed disconsolately. "It's quite all right, Mr. Holmes...I only wish I could have done something. Good day; I can show myself out."

I heard the front door swing gently shut but a few moments later. I still remained in my chair, twirling the empty brandy snifter and observing how badly my hands trembled, my mind in a daze.

Finally, I rose to my feet, set the brandy snifter on the sideboard, and gently picked Watson up, laying him on the settee. I arranged his hands, slid my hand over his eyelids to close them and could not resist running my hand over the side of his face, just as I did when I gave him such a shock upon my return "from the dead." His face was still warm, but of course, there was no reaction as there was that time.

Eventually, I half-stumbled downstairs, finding Mrs. Hudson seated at the kitchen table, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron.

"The doctor told me before he left...I am so sorry, Mr. Holmes."

I nodded, unable to say anything more.


	3. Chapter 3

In the early afternoon, Mycroft walked in, his face full of unspoken sympathy. Mrs. Hudson must have wired him with the news, and I could not find it in my heart to be angry with her. Out of habit (and in an attempt to control my emotions), I made some quip about Jupiter altering his orbit. He just looked at me and quietly said, "Sherlock, don't," as he embraced me.

...

I remember only snatches of the next few days...just as if they were distinct photographs.

I went through these days mechanically, answering when spoken to, picking at my food when it was set before me, lying down on my bed at night...although I was plagued either with insomnia or with nightmares. The nightmares were mostly that fateful morning scene replaying over and over in my mind (curse my overactive imagination) and me constantly wondering if it was my fault after all...it _was _I who dragged him out on that chase the previous night.

Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson made all the arrangements, consulting me on a few points...just as well that they did, I suppose, as I was hardly able to think.

The funeral itself was surely the best-attended funeral in London...Scotland Yard turned out full force, as did several medical colleagues of Watson's and a large crowd of who I could only assume were grateful patients and their families.

...

The days after the funeral passed by, adding to weeks, and yet I could not get rid of the feeling that Watson would walk in any moment...that he was just running late at his practice or away on a week's holiday...irrational, I well knew, but there it was.

...

Finally, in early December, I made preparations for moving to Sussex...I realized that all of a sudden, "The Game" had no attraction to me any longer...not without my trusted partner at my side. My only bitter regret was that I did not realize that sooner...if I had, perhaps he would still be here?

...

The task of sorting through Watson's effects fell to me, as he had no immediate living relatives. I took the well-worn dispatch box to Sussex with me when I moved there mid-December, and one miserably chill and dark winter evening, opened it on a whim, fancying that I could feel Watson next to me, chuckling over my intrusiveness. "I trust you do not object, my dear fellow," I could not help whispering as I gently opened the cover of the topmost journal...and, much to my surprise, a leaf of paper fluttered out of the journal. I bent down and carefully picked it up...it was a letter addressed to me.

With bated breath, I began to read.

"My dear Holmes,

If you are reading this, I should say it is safe to assume that I am no longer here. Life is so uncertain, after all—I have noted the fact many times during my time in the Army and then during my medical work. And, perhaps, my...shall we say, passing?... happened suddenly, whatever occasioned it, and, therefore, I had been unable to say anything to you. In view of that possibility, I have written this letter and secreted it here, knowing that your natural curiosity will lead you here sooner or later." I had to chuckle—he knew me far too well.

I resumed reading. "So my dear Holmes, this is what I wished to say. I do _not _want you to engage in self-recrimination and endless pondering if there was any way you might have prevented this eventuality. You have always been my dearest friend; I would have you know this—I have been proud and happy at your side. Take good care of yourself, I implore you, for _my_ sake, and trust that we shall meet again one day, as I firmly believe. Until then, I remain

Affectionately yours,

John H. Watson."

I was struggling to hold back tears as I laid the letter aside...and then, for the first time in my adult life, I gave in (no one else was here to observe my lapse in control, in any event) and wept. My heart felt lighter for the first time in weeks...and I thought I could actually countenance living and waiting patiently until Watson and I would meet again.

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P.S. This is the poem from which the title is drawn:

**Crossing the Bar**

Sunset and evening star,  
And one clear call for me!  
And may there be no moaning of the bar,  
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,  
Too full for sound and foam,  
When that which drew from out the boundless deep  
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,  
And after that the dark!  
And may there be no sadness of farewell,  
When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place  
The flood may bear me far,  
I hope to see my Pilot face to face  
When I have crossed the bar.

(Alfred, Lord Tennyson)


End file.
